Rock Bottom
by J.J. the hinkypunk
Summary: Neville Longbottom reflects on life as it stands.


Rock Bottom

Hello there. I was writing chapter 2 of Strange Love and I got _really_ stuck. Thus I wrote this, hoping to banish the writer's block monster away (and I want to to postpone a term paper...). I'm not sure what prompted this. Generally, I don't like writing angst, and I'm a hard core Harry/Draco and slash fan in general... so this fic is weird to me. Just posting it because... Neville doesn't get enough fanfiction. And he's cool.   
  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling and is being used without permission but not for profit.  
Note: Neville POV.   
  
Rock Bottom  
  
On the constant quest for finding myself, all I ever discover is that I'm lost. I don't think I'll ever be able to find myself, and that's a scary prospect. As it stands, I am fourteen years old. That's probably not even one sixth of my life. I've got all those years to go. And what is going to fill them up? I used to think that everyone had their talent; that everyone excelled in something. That's a load of bull shit. _I_ don't have any talents. Look at me, I'm ugly as a horse. Come to think of it, hoses are nice looking. I'm _uglier_ than a horse. To top that off, everything I try to do ends up a mess. As a toddler, my family held high hopes that I wasn't a Squib. 'Course, I'm not, but am I really a wizard? I fuck up in ninety-five percent of my classes. I can't mix a potion, I can't transfigure a safety pin into a paper clip, I can't make a feather fly across the room even when there is a light wind, I can't defend myself against a pixie. I'm a screw up. I can't do anything properly. I can't play Quidditch, I can't dance, I can't draw, I'm not romantic.  
  
I sit here--it's probably around three am--and I look at my roommates. Dean--he's an artist. And Seamus is a great friend. Ron's got a good sense of humor. Harry--let's not even go there. His talents cover several roles of parchment when listed. I don't have anything going for me. If it were prestigious to be a basket case, I'd be in good shape. But it's not. I wonder why the fuck people like me exist. What do we do for the world? We don't do shit for the world. The world would be happier without us. Then I think, well, what if I just died, right now? Nobody would care, with the exception of Gran. Nobody would notice. People would move along, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary happened. Snape would continue fucking with people's minds, Ollivander would continue the manufacturing of wands, and George Bush would continue being an idiot. I'd have a few mourners if I died, and that's it.  
  
I compare that to someone like Harry. If he died, the whole wizarding world would explode. Everyone would know about it. Some people would rejoice, some people would weep for days and days on end. I hate being just another mess up. Just another looser in the crowd, surrounded by winners. I want so badly to leave an impact on someone, _anyone_, but I don't know how. I don't have anything that would make a difference to anyone. I'm not brave enough to fight You-Know-Who, I'm not smart enough to discover the thirteenth use for dragon blood, and I'm not even strong enough to knock out a bully.   
  
Is there a god? If there is, why didn't he give me something? Why am I so bland and empty? Why do I sit here in the wee hours of the morning, bitching to myself about my lack of talents? Why am I so superficial that I care if I'm not handsome, when there are so many more important things to worry about? I don't even give a fuck if I have talents, or looks, or some amazing quality that people admire. All I fucking want is for my fucking parents to see my face the next time I walk into St. Mungo's, and they'll recognize me. Somehow, they'll recognize me. And everything will be all right, because they'll be there. I wish they'd know who I was, I wish they were healthy enough to take me home. I wish I had them, I wish I knew them. I wish I knew what they were like; they must have been amazing people. I wish I could be like my father, a brave Auror, tirelessly fighting the Dark side. He gave his life up for society; that is true beauty. I want to know him so badly, because he is the only person I look up to. Fuck, why did it have to be him? Why did the Death Eaters torture him? There can't be a god, because if there were, he'd have left me with nothing. Not even a mother and a father. Is that to much to fucking ask for?  
  
Why don't I just end it here? Find some poisonous concoction and chug it down. I can see it now: me drinking straight from the charred cauldron, filtering some oozing black liquid down my throat, feeling every muscle tighten and tighten and tighten until they burst... my body will fall to the ground, I won't notice when I crack my skull on the hard floor because I'll be preoccupied with the searing pain coursing through my body from the poison... my lips will turn purple, my skin a waxy blue... and it'll be all over. I'll be gone, leaving behind no legacy. I won't have to struggle through the days any longer when I'm dead.  
  
I want to do it. I've never come this close to suicide before, but I want to do it.  
  
Who the fuck am I kidding? I can't brew a potion that could kill an ant. So I decide to sit in bed, churning from side to side, damp with sweat. I can't even kill myself; I don't know how. It doesn't get any fucking worse than that. I'm as low as it gets.   
  
Somewhere along, I fall asleep. No dreams. I can't even dream about what life would have been like if the Cruciatus Curse hadn't hit my parents. I used to do that, I used to pretend that I had something. But I have nothing. Nothing at all.  
  
When I wake up the next morning, I feel a little better. It's always that way. There's something about the nighttime that brings out the insanity in people, I guess... because I look at it now, and I don't want to drink poison anymore. I have approximately five sixths of my life to go, and I'm going to do something with it. I'm going to love someone, I'm going to graduate from Hogwarts, I'm going to make it through Snape's lessons. And when I do, I'll be content, because I'll know, that through all the shit people go through, we learn that there are good times to come.  
  
end fic  
  
J.J.  
running away  
  
  
  



End file.
